His voice goes even flatter. “You’re with us now?”
“As of today.”
He scowls.
“Figures,” he mutters. “I get hurt the night you start.”
“Let’s not make it a habit,” I say, tone upbeat. “You’ve got better things to do than stress-test our equipment.”
Still a grump. Good to know.
I continue, “I’m going to check the inside ligament and the cushion in your knee—slow and gentle. Tell me if anything spikes.”
I cradle his heel and calf and ease his lower leg a few degrees outward, testing the ligament on the inside. He doesn’t make a sound, but a muscle jumps in his cheek. The knee’s already starting to swell. When I trace the joint line, he flinches at one spot—right where the cushioning in his knee is irritated.
“Pain, one to ten?”
“Six.” His knuckles whiten, and he lets out a sharp breath.
I’m guessing that would be an eight for most people.
I lightly press along the inner band, then slide to the joint line. “Here?”
His breath flares once. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Here’s what I’m seeing so far: that inside ligament’s irritated, and the joint cushion feels off. Nothing we can’t handle.”
The curtain shifts and Dr. Patel steps in, rink jacket still on. “Let me take a closer look, Declan.”
He feels along the inside of the knee, then gently moves the lower leg outward. Declan’s breath hitches.
“No return tonight,” Dr. Patel says, decisive. “Hinged brace, ice, and compression. I’m scheduling an eight a.m. MRI. No driving. I’ll re-check you after the final horn.”
He gives me a quick nod and slips back out toward the bench.
Declan stares at the ceiling like it owes him. “Tape it. Two shifts. I can protect it.”
“I don’t doubt your grit,” I say, fitting the hinged knee brace around his leg, “but that would just extend your recovery time. We’ll get your MRI done, then we’ll build your plan.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Timeline?”
“Right now, I can’t say. We need the MRI to know which structures are involved and how severe. Once Dr. Patel reviews it, we’ll map out your progression from there.”
His jaw clenches.
I tighten the straps until his breathing eases a notch. “Dr. Patel will re-check you postgame and read the MRI in the morning. He makes the final call on return-to-play.”
Vic jots the time on the whiteboard. “Crutches?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping one hand steady under Declan’s calf while Vic slips out. “Ice twenty minutes on, twenty off. Feet up at home. Sleep if you can. And—”
The horn blares for intermission. David appears in the doorway, headset askew.
“Status?”
“Out. Brace and ice. MRI at eight.”
He nods once, eyes on Declan. “Focus on recovery. Don’t be stupid.”
